What it Means to be Alive
by brainenuggets
Summary: (Previously titled Stargazing) A series of oneshots revolving around the MTMTE cast. Chapter 4: Swerve needs a friend.
1. Stargazing

**Tailgate buys a star. How is that a bad thing?**

* * *

"See it? Right there!" Tailgate pointed out the window dramatically, visor wide and bright as he did so. "You see it, right?"

Cyclonus only grunted. "They're stars. I see them."

"No, no, no," Tailgate said, shaking his head. "Not all of them. Just-" he strained to point his arm and finger straighter. "Just that one. Right there."

Cyclonus didn't react, though, in actuality, he was trying very hard to discern exactly which star the minibot was so excited about.

Tailgate bounced a little as he waited for Cyclonus to respond.

"What about it?"

"I own it!"

Cyclonus turned to look at him, raising an optic ridge just slightly. "You own it," he deadpanned.

"Yeah!" Tailgate exclaimed. "Well, I guess we both own it since it's in my name, but you paid for it."

That earned a growl. "I did what?"

Tailgate deflated, twiddling his fingers. "Oh, um… Didn't I mention that? Heh. Remember, back at that trading outpost, when I asked if I could borrow some shanix…"

The hulking warrior faced him fully, stance tense and angry. "You… bought a star. With. My. Shanix." He felt his fingers tremble and stilled himself. He shut his optics and let out a long and heavy sigh. "You, Tailgate, are the biggest imbecile I have ever met."

Tailgate huffed. He still didn't like it when Cyclonus talked to him that way, but he figured it was just a part of who the ancient warriors was, so he tried not to take it too personally. "Well, I know I don't _actually_ own it. It's just for fun, sheesh!" He waved the papers declaring his ownership around before throwing them on the floor. "I mean, look at these! Definitely not legitimate. And before you ask, yes, I'm going to pay you back."

Cyclonus looked down at the papers and scowled. "How much did you spend on this farce?"

Tailgate pulled his legs up onto the windowsill. "And do you know what that star is? Huh? Do you? No really, do you? I can't remember what the guy said it was called." He snatched up one of the pages—the one with the price, no doubt—and shoved it under him before Cyclonus could get a good look. "Do you?"

"Tailgate."

"Well, I know what makes it special. The guy said it was a friendship star. Sappily stupid, I know, but he said that anywhere you were, if you followed the star it would lead you straight to your best friend."

"The price, Tailgate."

The minibot stared a bit harder at the star. "Well, excuse me, Mr. Grumpy-grumps, for not wanting to lose you."

For the briefest of seconds, Cyclonus couldn't hide his smile. But then he did and he ground out, "Tailgate. How much. Did you. Spend?"

Tailgate turned a gleaming visor toward him. "Don't think I didn't see that smile."

Cyclonus backhanded him off his perch and snatched up the paper. His optics widened and his jaw dropped as he read, re-read and triple read the price.

"I swear I will pay you back," Tailgate chirped backing toward the door. Another few seconds and he would be out of the hab suite and among witnesses who might just offer him a sliver of protection.

Cyclonus didn't look at him. "Do you have any idea how long it would take you to earn that kind of shanix?"

The door was behind him. Now to input the code and he'd be home free… At least for a little while. "Y'know, I just remembered that I was supposed to meet Getaway at Swerve's, so I'm just gonna-" the door slid open and he bolted.

Cyclonus crumpled the paper in his servo and looked back out the window. "A friendship star," he huffed. He glanced back at the closed door and smiled. "Imbecile."

* * *

 **Starring Mr. Grumpy-Grumps himself, Cyclonus and co-starring the cutest of the cute, Tailgate.**


	2. Sharing in Suffering

**Rodimus regrets. Someone reminds him he's not alone.**

* * *

It was hard at times. Making tough choices and spur-of-the-moment calls that led to utter disasters and personal failures could certainly take its toll on a person. He still hadn't forgiven himself for what happened with Drift. He was angry deep down and he had no one to talk to about it. Other than Rung, of course, but he didn't particularly like talking about shortcomings with a psychiatrist. It made him feel… messed up.

Broken.

Then everything happened with Megatron and he couldn't help feeling like he had received a slap in the face from Optimus for his blunders. Why else would Megatron, the war-mongering, genocidal leader of the Decepticons be put in a position of command over him?

He was losing what little control he had. The fraction of trust still offered him from his crew was deteriorating before him.

Overlord.

Drift.

Megatron.

There were about a hundred other things that he could and probably should take blame for, but thinking about them only made him feel worse. More hopeless than before.

When out and about on the ship, he would wear a cocky smile and strut around with an obnoxious surplus of self-confidence, but here, in the solitude of his hab suit, he would sit on the floor, legs pulled to his chest, lean against his desk and stare at the wall as the memories of his failures washed over him in wave after crashing wave.

He would question. He would regret. He would suffer. And the worst part was that nobody even knew about it.

Ultra Magnus hailed him, but he ignored it. A few minutes later another call came, but he didn't answer. He only stared with sad optics and a deep frown.

Hours passed. Comms were ignored. Silence cut through him.

He laid his head against his knees and sank lower into the darker places in his mind.

The door slid open with a quiet swoosh and he listened as heavy footsteps slowly made their way around his desk and to his side.

He knew that whoever had overridden the access code to his room was watching him, but he chose to ignore him and simply act like he had fallen into recharge in this huddled position. Eventually the visitor would turn and leave him to rest without so much as a word and he would be completely alone once again.

Only the visitor didn't leave. He crouched down and sat against the desk at his side.

"Believe it or not, Rodimus," the visitor whispered, "I do understand the pressing weight or regret."

Rodimus shifted just slightly to peek over his arm at the one sitting beside him. Megatron was staring at the wall with the same pained look Rodimus knew had become a regular visitor on his own face.

He tightened his grip on his legs and pressed his head harder against his knees, trying desperately to keep his own emotions in check while in the presence of the former Decepticon.

A large hand rested gently on his back and he realized that he was reading Megatron's energy field without even trying. It was as though the wall he normally hid behind had suddenly collapsed and revealed a mirror to Rodimus' own torment.

Without a second thought—or even a first thought—Rodimus dropped his own defenses and allowed his self-loathing to mix with Megatron's.

They sat in silence for a few hours with Rodimus curled into himself and Megatron's hand resting on his back in an almost kind gesture, reminding the younger Cybertronian that he wasn't alone in his battle against himself. They all made mistakes. Some worse than others.

Finally, Rodimus slipped into recharge and his body slumped against the ex-Decepticon's side.

Megatron froze for a moment before somewhat awkwardly resting his arm around the younger's shoulders and allowing him to nestle into his side.

He smirked a little. It wasn't hard to remember just how immature Rodimus could be, but he had forgotten exactly how young he still was.

He frowned. "You… None of you should have had to be so involved in a war," he mumbled.

After checking his chronometer, Megatron carefully scooped the co-captain—still a ridiculous title—up and gently placed him on his berth. He was slightly, though not completely, surprised that Rodimus didn't even stir at being handled.

He must have been exhausted.

Megatron quietly left the room and headed for his quarters, knowing that Ultra Magnus would expect to see him up and working in the next two hours.

As the door slid shut, Rodimus opened his eyes and sat up. He thought about what Megatron had said and wondered if he really and truly did regret the choices he had made.

He laid back down and stared at the ceiling, vaguely aware that he felt even the smallest bit better now that someone had been there to simply share in his suffering.

* * *

 **Megatron is the rough and grumbly, bear of a grandpa in the group. But he's a grandpa nonetheless.**


	3. Familiar

**Ravage feels lost. Nothing is familiar.**

* * *

They were annoying. All of them. They were loud and obnoxious and some of them smelled… weird. How he had come to unofficially join their little cult, he simply could not wrap his mind around.

He hated them!

Most of them.

Some of them were decent… Okay, decent enough. They kept his bowl filled with the best energon and that was fine by him.

Of course he was supposed to be here on a mission and, as far as the boss knew, he still was. Maybe he actually was. Waiting, watching, lurking in the shadows… That was his specialty. He was willing to sit through the chaos to see if anything interesting might unfold. He doubted anything more than utter madness would occur—several people had already suffered minor breakdowns—but his curiosity simply had to be satisfied.

But then there was that smell. If was only certain ones that carried the scent and it was in no pattern he could recognize. He often wondered about it, but would merely give a quick snort a skulk off into another corner to observe from a distance.

It wouldn't be such a bad thing if the few bots, who almost always smelled funny, didn't decide it their mission in life to befriend him in some way, shape or form. No matter how often his hissed and growled and glowered and threatened their lives in acute detail, they always came back, gushing with their unbearable affability.

The one who referred to itself as 'she' was, by far, the worst of them. He would fine a quiet place to power down and she would come strolling in, her scent pungent, and disturb his rest almost every time.

Did she know he was there or was he cursed to never again have a moment's leisure?

Okay, maybe he was being a bit dramatic.

And maybe that was why he continuously found himself under that one, particular slab. The world he had become a part of was foreign to him. Enclosed with no escape and packed with two hundred plus idiots. There was only one scent on the entire ship that offered him any sense of familiarity and, yes, comfort. So time and time again, as badly as he wanted to be alone, he would retreat to the cavern under the slab he knew so well and listen to the intakes of the room's main proprietor.

Did he know he was there? Maybe.

Did it really matter? Probably not.

At the moment, he was lost. They both were. Outsiders living on the inside, wanting to be alone yet surrounded by life. Orphans, abandoned by hope and cause.

A fantastic tragedy of two criminals found in the dark aboard the Lost Light and confused as to whether they wished to stay found or be lost once more.

"Ravage?"

He lifted his head off his paws and slinked out from under the slab. Megatron was laying on his back, arms folded over his chest and eyes staring past the ceiling, lost in thought.

Ravage hopped up on the end of the berth and sat beside the ex-warlord's feet. "Yes?"

"I did not realize you were in here until you started…" he trailed off.

Ravage watched him carefully.

"You were… grunting."

The cat stood and circled a few times before curling at the foot of the slab, back to his leader. "I was thinking again."

Megatron did not respond at first, but eventually gave a tired sigh and mumbled, "That is all either of us seem to do anymore."

Indeed. They were lost to their world, lost to their cause, lost on the Lost Light and lost in their own heads.

Nothing was familiar.

And what was that smell?

* * *

 **Although I call them oneshots, I think I might continue this one at some point. We'll see. I like Ravage.**


	4. Friends

The door slid open with a quiet swoosh behind him. He listened for the hesitant clunks of pedefall to enter. It was a sound he'd become accustomed to hearing on days like this, when business was slow and he spent a little more time in his hab suit than usual. He couldn't help the small smile that spread on his face as he listened to the sound get closer and closer until he finally heard his visitor sit on Red Alert's old recharge slab.

"I appreciate the concern," he said, turning around, "but I really am okay, Skids. You, Tailgate, Bluestreak—you don't have to come down here every time I decide to take a break."

Skids shrugged. "You almost died, Swerve. And we didn't even know about it because–"

"Because of my avatar, yeah, I know."

"Because none of us ever came to check on you," Skids said with a frown. "We just assumed that cracking jokes meant you were happy. I never even considered–"

"Aw, shush." Swerve waved him off. "Don't worry about it. Like I told you the last time, and the time before that, and the five other times before that, I'm fine now. I'm _not_ the most worthless person in the universe and I actually _do_ have friends. I get that now, okay? So quit worrying about it."

"What kind of friend would I be if I just stopped caring about your mental health?"

"Look," Swerve said nonchalantly, pulling up a game on his datapad, "Bluestreak made me promise, Rodimus made me promise, Tailgate made me promise and Cyclonus was eyeing me the entire time I was promising Tailgate, so I guess I promised him too, and now I'm promising you, I won't hurt myself, I won't lock myself away and if I start feeling all depressed, I'll go see Rung. M'kay?" He concentrated a bit more on his game, smiling when he reached whatever object he was trying to get to and shooed Skids away. "Now as much as I love company, I'm not a big fan of lectures, so since that's what all of you come in here to do, you can just go on about your business and I'll see you in the bar after I've recharged a bit."

Skids shook his head, gaze falling on the spot on the floor where he had found his friend unconscious not so long ago. A fresh wave of guilt washed over him and his frown deepened.

"Swerve to Skids. Come in, Skids." The minibot waved his hand in front of Skids' face, breaking his concentration. "Hey. I'm here now, alright? Right here on my slab." He tapped the metal berth with a grin. "See? It's here. I'm here. All's good. So go on."

Skids snatched the datapad from Swerve's hand and looked him in the optic. "Promise me, Swerve. Me specifically. Promise me you'll get help if you need it."

"Yeah, yeah, I promise. Now give me my game."

Skids held him back. "Serious face, Swerve. Promise."

Swerve smirked. "Whatever you say, Rung."

"Swerve." Skids stared him down until he saw the cockiness begin to fade. "Really. If anything happens—anything at all—you come to me. Forget Rung. Forget the others. If you feel even the tiniest bit alone or whatever, you come find me. Promise?"

Swerve stared at him. "Okay… Okay, I promise."

Skids smiled and handed him his game. "See you later, then. At the bar, yeah? The real you." He got up and crossed the room, but just before he reached the door, Swerve called him.

"Skids? I mean… Um… I don't actually… I didn't need to recharge…" His voice was small and he studied his hands with rapt interest. "Maybe… If you're not busy, I mean… You can, I dunno, stay and just hang out for a while…"

Skids resumed his place on the slab across from Swerve with a smile, happy to see that smile returned ten fold on Swerve's face.

"Y'know," Swerve said, "I guess I really do have some good friends here."


End file.
